Little Soldier Boy
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: In her mind, Percy will always be Sally's little soldier boy. A series of three short drabbles based on the song "Leaves from the vine" showing Percy's transition from the little soldier boy to the brave soldier he was meant to be


**I hope you all enjoy this one shot, because I enjoyed finally writing it. It feels a bit different from what I usually write, so I hope it turned out alright...**

**Based on the song "Leaves from the vine" from Avatar: the Last Airbender, which I urge you to look up on Youtube. Italics indicate the lyrics.**

_Leaves from the vine _

_Falling so slow_

_Like fragile tiny shells_

_Drifting in the foam_

_Little solider boy _

_Come marching home_

_Brave solider boy _

_Comes marching home_

A woman and a little boy walked down the street.

It was a beautiful spring day, perhaps mid-afternoon. The sun had risen high in the sky, heating the cracked brick pavement. The air was finally starting to warm after a harsh winter. There was even a gentle, wafting breeze, refreshing and crisp in comparison to bitter wind. The particular street they were walking down was lined with flowering trees, and the subtle wind shook the pale white petals from their branches. They floated around, twirling and dancing in the wind.

It was a beautiful scene, like something out of a painting or photograph.

The woman seemed young, probably not even thirty yet. Her brown hair was piled atop her head in a messy bun, and she was wrapped up in a light blue sweater. Every so often, a stray petal would catch itself in her hair. She didn't bother to shake them off though. From a distance, her blue eyes, trained forward, seemed to sparkle in the late sunshine, her face bathed a soft, warm glow. Her smile was more radiant than any of the refracted rays of sunshine broken apart by the hanging branches. Every so often, soft chuckles would escape her lips.

Ahead of her, a skinny little boy no more than six bolted around, making the discarded petals swirl around him like a miniature cyclone. Tufts of black hair, dark as night itself, stuck up in every direction and caught flower petals as he spun around, yelling for his mommy to watch. Every so often it would fall in his shimmering green eyes, and he would have to blow away with a puff of air. A blue backpack bounced between his shoulder blades, and he clutched a colored piece of paper in his hands. Raucous peals of laughter broke the air every so often as he jumped over cracks in the sidewalk and stray tree roots that broke through the surface.

The scene seemed beautiful. It seemed perfect. But that was far from the case.

The pretty young woman put on a good show. She smiled for her little boy and for the eyes of strangers. She kept up appearances. But inside, she hurt. Some days, her smile was real and bright, brought on by the son she loved so. Some days, her eyes truly sparkled in the sun.

But not today. Today, everything was superficial. Her smile meant to please her baby. Her eyes meant to comfort him and assure him that everything was just fine, even when the smelly, mean man yelled and threw yucky brown bottles.

It was the piece of paper clutched in the small boy's hands that had upset her today. At school, the first graders had been tasked with drawing what they wanted to be when they grew up. A simple enough task. Most of the little boys and girls crudely drew themselves as doctors, firefighters, police officers, lawyers, scientists, astronauts. But not her little boy. He had to be different.

His picture depicted a little black haired boy holding a big yellow sword. Her little boy wanted to fight bad guys, just like the Hercules in the colorful Disney movie that had captured his attention as of late. She never would have shown the little boy the movie herself, but the moment he first saw it at a friend's house, he was enamored.

He wanted to be just like the ginger young man in the movie, who went from being ridiculed to revered. The black haired little boy already felt alone, like he didn't belong. The other children asked him why he was always so fidgety. The made fun of him when he struggled to read out loud from the simple picture books. The bigger boys picked on him, shoved him down, giving him cuts and bruises and scrapes. But they were just children, they didn't understand that they were in the wrong. The little black haired boy just wanted to be like Hercules, he wanted to be strong enough to fight the people that were mean to him, he wanted everyone to like him. He dreamed of adventure, of far off places, and a hero's welcome.

So her little boy wanted to be a solider. Surely there were other little boys and girls that drew themselves in full green regalia, bravely fighting unnamed, faceless enemies.

But no, her little boy _would _be a soldier someday soon, far too much like Hercules. He had perhaps another five years at best before they found him, before he was sucked into a world he had no business belonging too. Only five years before the colorful monsters in his favorite movie became all to real.

Soon he would fight unworldly enemies, powerful beings hell-bent on slaughter and destruction. He would face pain and misery unequaled in any other world. He would become a pawn in an ancient game. His innocence would be sapped from him.

So on the nights the mean man was out drinking and smoking and playing poker, and when little boy was tucked tightly into bed, the kind, young woman would cry into her pillow, letting it muffle her sobs.

She wept for her little soldier boy who wouldn't be a little boy for much longer.

_Those leaves did grow_

_From branches overgrown_

_Drifting slowly down _

_Resting on the loam_

_Little soldier boy_

_Taken from home_

_Forced to fight a war_

_That's not his own_

The little boy was no longer a little boy

He had sprouted up like a weed over the long summer, growing and growing until he was far taller than his own mother. He was all arms and legs now, gangly and awkward, every movement clumsy. He was always knocking things over, and had broken more than a few lamps in his days. When he hugged her, his chin could quite easily rest on her head. It made the kind-eyed woman sad that she couldn't hold her little boy anymore, couldn't carry him off to bed.

He may not be little in size anymore, but she had hoped he would still be the innocent, joking, mischievous boy he'd been at the age of six, the same little boy that ran down flower-lined streets and laughed without abandon. She had fooled herself for three years, thinking his new friends would help him deal with the fear and pain, help him avoid a tragic fate. She thought the cute blonde girl would keep him out of trouble. She thought the brown haired boy in the rasta cap would help him laugh all the stress away. Such was not the case.

She was finally forced to realize that her boy was not the same on the day of his fifteenth birthday. On the surface, he was okay. He still cracked jokes, still laughed at the look on his mother's face when he tried to swipe a finger of blue icing from the cake she was frosting. He still gave her goofy half smiles when she scolded him for stealing the blue cookies before they cooled.

But she noticed something different in his once rounded, rosy face. All his angles had sharpened, become more defined. He looked harsher, bolder, prouder, more like his father every single day. The adorable freckles that used to dot the bridge of his nose were gone, hidden by his deep tan. It wasn't the same face she'd loved all these years.

New clusters of white and pink scars dusted his tanned skin in place of the flower petals that had once dusted his hair. Long ones, small ones. Thick ones, thin ones. His body was rough and lean, all angles and hard muscle. His hugs didn't feel the same anymore.

His eyes were the worst though. They had an underlying layer of sadness just like her own, despite all the good things in his life. Despite the new friends that cared for him a great deal. Despite the blonde girl's kiss. Despite the dour, pale boy being on their side. Despite being home after a long, sad summer away. Despite the nice, new man with the salt and pepper hair washing dishes beside them.

Her boy was different. He wasn't her little make believe soldier boy anymore. He was her brave soldier boy now, and he was putting on an act for her. He smiled smiles that didn't quite reach his sad green eyes and he laughed laughs that seemed hollow. He just pretended like everything was okay, exactly like she'd done all those years ago. He kept up appearances when, in reality, he was broken.

He was only fifteen, but a war for the fate of humanity was on the horizon. He already knew pain and suffering and anguish. And to think he had just one more year until the words that had tortured him since the age of twelve would be proven true or false. Just one more year of training, one more year of fighting.

When the nice man with the salt and pepper hair was showering before bed, and when her not-so-little boy was sprawled in bed and snoring away, she would cry into her pillow, letting it muffle her sobs.

She wept because she might only have one more year left with her little boy turned brave soldier.

_Leaves from the vine_

_Falling so slow_

_Like fragile tiny shells_

_Drifting in the foam_

_Little soldier boy says_

"_Carry me home"_

_Sleeping soldier boy_

_Is carried home_

When the Empire State Building lit up blue, the not so young woman thought everything was coming to a close. She thought that she would have the rest of her lifetime to spend with her brave, wonderful soldier boy. He was finally coming home to stay. No more war, no more pain, no more fear. The four years of misery were over. The cute blonde girl turned beautiful soldier loved the brave soldier boy with all her heart. The brown haired boy who didn't wear the rasta anymore cap had grown into a strong young man that still knew how to make the brave soldier boy laugh. The dour, pale young boy had a new family, a new start.

Her soldier boy was finally, finally free.

But not for long.

After only a month of happiness and dates with a beautiful blonde soldier girl and dinners at home, the brave soldier boy was gone without a trace and the not so young woman was left without her boy.

She waited for days and days for news, any news on her brave soldier boy. Nothing came.

Days turned into weeks. Weeks turned into months.

She thought her brave solider boy was gone forever.

She spent most of her time sitting at the kitchen table, in front of the tiny window of their apartment. Her brown-gray hair was piled in a messy bun, and she was wrapped up in a light blue robe. A chipped white mug sat in front of her, coffee sitting untouched. Her eyes were sad and blank, rimmed in seemingly permanent dark circles. She never smiled anymore, no matter how much the nice man with salt and pepper hair tried.

She watched from the window as the orange autumn leaves fell from the trees, fluttering in the crisp breeze. Thanksgiving came and passed, and the brave soldier boy didn't come marching home. Only the beautiful soldier girl, like a daughter to the woman, showed up in sympathy and mourning. Some days, the woman watched as leaves fell on the heads of the young moms and dads that walked their sons and daughters to school, remembering her own little soldier boy from so, so long ago. Ten years and she still remembered those peaceful afternoons fondly.

In the winter, she watched the empty branches, wondering, just wondering where her brave soldier boy might be. Christmas came and passed. She still hung up the brave soldier boy's blue stocking, still filled it with azure candy. She cooked dinner for three even though there were only two. On Christmas Eve, she placed his wrapped presents under the tree, hoping she would wake up to a Christmas miracle. There was no miracle. The brave soldier boy did not come marching home.

When her husband was sleeping deeply, when he brave soldier boy was gone, the not so young woman would cry into her pillow, letting it muffle her sobs.

She wept for her brave soldier boy to soon taken from her.

Eventually, she was assured that her brave soldier boy was alive. He called her, voice cracked and broken, but she wasn't there to answer him. She broke down sobbing over the message, scaring the man with salt and pepper hair. He thought the brave soldier boy must have been dead. Soon, the phone became seemingly glued to the woman's hand. She almost never let it go. She would never miss the chance to speak to her brave soldier boy again. She did not get the chance again.

Spring passed and the flowered trees shed their petals all over again. The fell into the hair of the happy little families that ran along the streets. Summer came, and by then, the woman was reaching her breaking point. Her brave solider boy might be alive, but she could feel his suffering. News had begun to trickle in every so often, broken messages, tattered letters carried by the wind. One told the her brave solider boy was stuck in an infinite blackness.

She knew her brave soldier boy would not come home whole.

That was more than she could take. This time, she sobbed into her husband's shoulder instead of a pillow. She wept without shame for her brave soldier boy and for the beautiful soldier girl he loved.

Finally, finally, finally eight months after her brave soldier boy disappeared, he was safe again. The earth was at peace, the ground no longer shook, and her boy was free for good this time. No more battles, no more pain, no more fear.

She drove to the tall hill as fast as she possibly could, ready to meet her brave soldier boy after eight months away. The hours drive was too long for her to handle. She felt as though she was going mad.

Eventually, as the sun was setting, the came to the bottom of the hill, pulling their small car to the side of the road, kicking up clouds of pale dirt. The woman left her husband in the car and began the trek up the step hill to the lone pine tree.

And under that pine tree was her brave soldier boy, face calm and placid, asleep on a bed of soft pine needles. His arms were coiled around the beautiful soldier girl whom he loved with all his heart.

A gentle wind shook the trees around them and for just a moment, her brave solider boy was just a little boy again. The beautiful soldier girl beside him faded away, as did the black ink tattoo and the thick white scars and bloody-stained bandages. For a moment, the brave solider boy was six years old again, asleep under a tree. Peaceful and calm, unmarred by war and destruction, his nose dotted with little freckles. The woman wished nothing more than to scoop her little soldier boy up, hold him tight in her arms and never let him go, to carry him off to bed and tuck him in.

But such dreams could never truly be, and soon she was back to reality. Her little boy was all grown up, his arms encircling a beautiful soldier girl instead of his mother.

This time, the woman wept tears of joy. She didn't need a pillow anymore, or her husband's shoulder. She wept openly and honestly, not caring when the two brave soldiers opened their green and gray eyes to witness her sobs.

Nothing mattered anymore.

The pain was over.

Her brave soldier boy was finally home for good, and she would have a lifetime to prove the depth of her love and caring for him.

**Please let me know what you thought, and let me know if you recognized the song. **


End file.
